


Makoto's Magical Bakery

by AnonymousHeavyIndustries



Category: Free!
Genre: Bakery and Coffee Shop, Coprophagia, Crying, Enemas, Farting, Filming, Future Fic, Humiliation, Intense Frosting Action, M/M, Omorashi, Scat, This Fic Runs On Happy Faces, Watersports, delicious cake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7970632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousHeavyIndustries/pseuds/AnonymousHeavyIndustries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<em>What can I get for you today?"</em><br/> <br/>"<em>My birthday's coming up and I was hoping for one of the cakes off the BW menu."</em></p><p>
  <em>Makoto's smile faltered. </em>
</p><p>Makoto and Haru make a very special cake for their beloved customer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Makoto's Magical Bakery

**Author's Note:**

> With extra farts for a certain someone.

Just a stone's throw from the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium—and more importantly, its pool—and a brisk walk from the National Olympic Stadium was a certain bakery operated by two young gentlemen. Its clientele, mostly consisting of local businessmen, athletes cheating on their diets, and university students, had spread word of its goods through an underground network of pastry afficianados to bring it admirable success in a city populated with dime a dozen bakeshops and patisseries.

This is but a short look in the life of The Rockhopper Bakery.

Lights go on at 5AM strict. When Makoto staggered through the door at 5:05, the tang of heat tempered the air wafting from the kitchen and the clatter of pans and trays mumbled through the empty shop. The earliest of the early morning rushes began now in the streets as the liquor vending machines turned on and the city that scarcely slept began stirring from its momentary respite, but for the Rockhoppers there was still a few cloistered moments to be had before the noisecoloursound of Tokyo came bursting through their front door. There was a hot cup of coffee—one cream, two sugars—waiting for Makoto on the counter next to an empty cake display, same as it was every morning. He drank it fast, slapped the sleep outta himself, and entered the kitchen. Haru greeted him with a nod as he scrubbed in and pulled a clean apron over his clothes. He fetched bowls of cookie dough out of the fridge as Haru shaped their first loaves of the day. While Rockhopper was best known for their pastries, their savoury breads were nothing to sneeze at and the small batches they made were always snatched up before the hours hit double digits.

They worked in silent synchronicity, Haru measuring, mixing, shaping, and sweating with each pass by the ovens while Makoto pinched his dough into balls roughly the same size and plopped them onto a sheet in orderly rows two thumb widths apart. The work was soothing in its simplicity and allowed him to admire the simple blobs the oven would transform into delectable works of art. Rich, crispy-edged peanut butter, decadent chocolate chunk clustered with pecans and dried cherries, triple chocolate espresso doing a tightrope balancing act on a line of heartsome bittersweet, then the more specialized cookies: almond crescents that melted on the tongue and delicate blackberry madeleines shaped like sea shells and—O, the cakes! Ever changing with the seasons, they were creations of sugar and magic that had customers lining up the block to catch even the faintest whiff. There was the classic standby of strawberry shortcake, of course, only an idiot would open a bakery in Tokyo and not sell them when they were in season, but the others were when Haru really got to shine: chocolate meringue bedecked with whipped cream and raspberries, mango cheesecake with a glossy golden-orange passionfruit glaze, tiramisu charlotte chilled to perfection—and that still didn't cover the variety of pies, tarts, and other pastries that graced the long glass display case on any given day. Makoto had put on ten kilos since the shop's opening day and only felt half bad for it.

If in high school he'd been told that he'd be helping run a bakery in a little over half a decade, he would've laughed at the notion. He'd burnt water by looking at it wrong and reckoned he could coast through university on conbini meals, but two months living on his lonesome had convinced him that was neither economically feasible nor beneficial to his long term health. He crawled to Haru, begging to learn how to cook, and was given a crash course in the kitchen arts. Haru was a gentle but stern teacher, correcting his hand position to prevent him from chopping his fingers off while cutting vegetables, rescuing his grocery budget from food waste and impulse buys with weekly meal plans, and finding something positive to build on in every failed dish. When he finally managed to make a presentable supper of nikujaga, the satisfaction on Haru's face was forever engraved in his heart. Cooking had become another facet of their relationship they could mutually share and it was through cooking that Makoto began to understand the subtleties of how Haru expressed himself through his food. Times of emotional duress resulted in simpler, smaller menus while stints of joy came with towering, elaborate works that had food bloggers flocking in by the dozens. When the menu changed, he studied it, adjusted to the mood, and kept supporting Haru however necessary.

When the clock hit five to seven, Haru was finishing up the details of a ridiculous six-layer cake—each layer a different colour of the rainbow, save indigo—scheduled for pickup while Makoto restocked the front of house supplies. The first of their morning part-timers showed up bright eyed, bushy tailed, and teeth chattering around what was no doubt his third coffee of the day. They knew he sorely needed it, there were dishes galore to wash and nary an automatic dishwasher in sight—a detail much to the horror of their first batch of hires, who were forced to scrape baked egg and hardened chocolate from countless bowls and pans with naught but scrubpads and elbow grease. Their waiter slash busboy Jiro moseyed in a few minutes behind, elbowing past the queue crowding the front door. Satisfied with the state of things, Makoto flipped the small chalk sign on the door from Closed to Open and smiled as the customers began marching in.

"Welcome back to The Rockhopper Bakery."

Business got off to a sprinting start; there were coffees to be brewed, customers to service at the tables, and phone calls to answer. The morning was the first of their three rush periods, followed by after school and after work. Makoto covered shifts as necessary, though he mostly worked in the mornings and afternoons. The slower evenings could be left to part-timers, to the chagrin of many customers who were unable to make it in earlier.

Despite not being the driving force of the business, Makoto had found himself the face of The Rockhopper. Haru rarely ventured out of the kitchen except for grocery runs and the odd delivery and though Jiro had a fanbase of his own, it paled in comparison to Makoto's. Certain regulars had memorized his schedule while he was attending school and would only come in during those hours, drawing out the purchase as long as they could and fighting for the limited seat space in order to watch him work.

When his shifts slowed, they would call him over from the counter to talk, weaselling out every tiny detail about himself that he was willing to give in the time it took for him to refill their drinks. He received enough phone numbers to split his pockets at the seams and gifts both great and small—in one day he could receive a pack of seasonal candy from a starstruck middleschooler, a bottle of cologne that cost double a day's wages from a pack of office ladies, and an offer to take a weekend trip to Tokyo Disneyland from a bachelor king, which he turned down due to the obvious sexpectations. The Disney weekend transformed into an all-expenses paid tour of Tokyo's greatest sights, meals in the top-rated restaurants, and a hot springs trip, if only he would _please_ give him a chance. It was the first time Haru had had to kick someone out and prompted him to put up a small sign on the register that said: _Please do not harass the staff or ask personal questions. Photographing the staff is not allowed. Giving the staff gifts is not allowed. Customers must order at least one beverage to be seated. Violating these rules will result in a lifetime ban._

His fans solidified a code of etiquette based on those guidelines and there hadn't been any significant problems since.

The morning flew by in its typical whirlwind fashion until the rush began to taper and one of the bakery's frequent visitors, a middle-aged man who'd been coming since day one, arrived at the counter.

"It's wonderful to see you again, Makoto," he said, not bothering to look at the pornographic array of sweets between them.

"It's nice to see you too. What can I get for you today?"

"The usual coffee will be fine."

"Anything else?"

"No, that'll be all," he said, handing over the necessary cash. "I heard you graduated recently, congratulations. Will you be moving on soon?"

"Oh, well... Yeah. Probably. I've been looking at a bunch of jobs." The man wasn't the first to ask about his impending departure from the bakery and wouldn't be the last, despite the register sign.

"That's a real shame. This place won't be the same without you." He fussed with the zipper of his jacket for a moment, contemplating. "I suppose now's as good of a time to ask as any. My birthday's coming up and I was hoping for one of the cakes off the BW menu."

Makoto's smile faltered. "Let me, uh, get Haru. He's the one who keeps that information."

Haru sat the man at a secluded table in the corner and let him browse through the BW menu, a single sheet of unlaminated paper that described a short list of request-only cakes. Each cost significantly more than anything sold in the bakery's lightside and the orders were rare enough that Makoto thought he would've gotten to the end of his employment without having to make another one. Which one would it be this time? Ahab's Delight? The Seven Seas? Crimson Tide? Sailor's Gold? Or the almighty big boss of confectionary hedonism, Killer Works?

"Hey, space cowboy, wanna gimmie the usual?"

Makoto snapped out of his trance to see Kisumi sidled up to the counter. "Sorry for the wait. I'll have that ready for you right away."

"No skin off my back, man. Sometimes you need a trip to Mars. So what's eating you?"

Makoto's hands jittered, cutting an exotic dash in the otherwise solid wave heart he was crafting in the milk foam. "Nothing important. Just work stuff."

He served up the latte without bothering to fix the heart, wanting to end the transaction as soon as possible, tensing as Kisumi clasped his wrist.

"Come grab a late lunch with me. I'd love to hear how things are going with you outside of this place."

"I don't know..." The last thing he needed was to be suffocated by kindness.

"Come on, it'll be fun! We never get to see each other anymore. You deserve to get out of the kitchen once in a while."

There was a line building up behind him. It wasn't as if he couldn't spare the time and indeed it had been a while since he'd gotten to spend an afternoon with a friend. If Kisumi wanted to press an uncomfortable topic, then he could change the subject. Kisumi didn't care about what he talked about as long as he got to hear himself speak. "Okay."

"I gotta finalize some details for this project, but I'll text you once I'm off. Looking forward to it!"

Makoto only got a second of breathing room before Haru tugged on the back of his apron. "We're making a Killer Works. Make sure you're ready when you come in tonight."

"I will," he affirmed, guts knotting with dread as he turned to the next customer.

Unlike with Kisumi, he didn't forget to smile.

—

True to his word, Kisumi texted him the address of a teppanyaki joint later that afternoon. Kisumi turned his phone off as they walked inside, muttering something about idiotic business calls trying to ruin his good time, then curled up against the bar and tapped the menu.

“Order to your heart’s content, this meal’s on me."

“I couldn’t possibly—”

“You can and you will, ‘cause you’re gonna have to listen to me bitch about work for the next hour. Can we get—” He scanned through the drinks menu lightning-fast. “—two Yebisu Creamys, please?”

“At least let me pay for the drinks.”

“Let me spoil you for once. Your guys’ food helps me get through cruddy days, this is the least I could do.”

“That’s more Haru than me, to be honest...”

“Haru isn’t the one who makes my coffee perfect every single time. You’re getting beef, by the way. The beef’s the best. Oh, let’s throw some abalone in there too. I’m feeling spendy tonight. If you want anything else, now's the time to say it.”

"No, that's fine." He didn't have much of an appetite anyway.

Their bounty was laid before them; abalone so fresh it was still wriggling in its shell and a pair of steaks that looked as if the cow was crying somewhere in the back. Transfixed, they watched him work, losing the world around them to the sizzle of fat-marbled beef striking the griddle. Tones from the land and sea coiled in Makoto's nostrils, underscored with the pungent aroma of garlic in the huge batch of rice on the iron. Their beers came long before the food was done. Makoto took a long swig he didn't realize he needed and the world softened around him, edges tinted pastel. Haru didn't like to go drinking and it wasn't as if he was much of a boozehound either, but sometimes he needed a touch of liquor to keep things tolerable. He breathed as the steaks were flipped, glanced to his left. Kisumi was looking at him sidelong over the rim of his mug, fox eyes slanted in amusement. Makoto stared into the belly of his mug and gulped deep, swallowing until the last heady dregs slid from the glass into his mouth.

Kisumi hailed the waitress. "Keep those beers coming. We've got a long night ahead of us."

Their stomachs were more full of booze than acid by the time they were served a golden brown mountain of fried rice topped with salt and pepper, paired with a glistening row of steak, the abalone artfully served in its shell, and a dish of tare for dipping.

Kisumi sunk his finger into his tie and loosened it. It was the same purple as his eyes, a quiet rebellion in his otherwise standard-issue salaryman costume. "My boss yelled at me for being too flashy again. Sometimes I wish I had your job. Haru wouldn't care what I wore as long as I wasn't naked. Speaking of which, how's work? You've been looking at coaching jobs since you graduated, right?"

"Ah. Yeah. I have." Makoto stuffed a few buttery pieces of abalone into his mouth while he tried to figure out the safest answer. "I'm trying to figure out if I want to stay in Tokyo or not."

“If the market’s too competitive here, you could always move further out. Check out a different prefecture. Travel a bit, see what you like.”

“There’s so many options that it’s kind of overwhelming, to be honest.”

“You can do what I did: apply to every job you’re interested in or kinda qualified for, see who makes offers, then throw all their names in a hat and pick that way.”

“You’re an engineer. Your pay is great no matter where you go. There’s a lot more for me to factor in.”

“Well, yeah, but you get to help people’s dreams comes true. That’s like, magic. I just have to bust my ass on deadlines constantly and try to explain to the managerial dum-dums why we’re behind schedule and why stuff isn’t working. I mean, we got our most recent project finished—thank god—and I’m glad about that, but it’s gonna start all over again in a few days.” There was a long pause filled with the sounds of slow chewing and new orders frying on the griddle. “Have you thought about coaching at Samezuka? Rinrin was telling me the other day that they were trying to woo him into a position because their current guy has to move back to Aomori at the end of the year to take care of his parents. They were offering a pretty decent package. I’m sure he could put in a good word for you if he asked. There’s no way he’s going to take it with the Olympics coming up next year.”

“I don’t know. It feels like it would be a waste to have come out here to broaden my horizons and then go straight back home."

“You came, you saw, you conquered, who cares if you want to return to your home turf? Nothing wrong with liking where you grew up. I mean, I wouldn’t want to go back because it’s more fun for me here, but you're not me."

Makoto traced his chopsticks along the whorling nacre of his empty shell.

“Are you scared of leaving Haru behind to fend for himself? He'll manage fine as long as he's got a good staff. He’s a big boy now.”

Makoto's stomach clenched. Haru had managed a seamless adaptation into city life. He was used to living alone. He could manage his money well. He was still reserved, but sociable enough to get what was needed done for business' sake. He didn't need Makoto to act as his interpreter anymore

He didn't need him for anything anymore.

He took another bite. "This steak's good, like you said."

Kisumi switched into a series of anecdotes of his boss giving him shit and his coworkers being idiots peppered with engineering jargon that flew straight over Makoto's head and into space, letting Makoto's contributions be reduced to the occasional grunt or hum and for that, he was grateful.

When they approached the bottom of their mugs and the end of the meal, Kisumi asked, “You wanna come back to my place? I got a bunch of movies I rented but haven’t been able to watch because I’ve been sleeping at the office the past couple weeks. Nothing scary. I've got this one called _The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat_ that seemed funny."

"Gotta go home and take a shower. I have to go back to work."

“Even after your morning shift? Does Haru want to work you to the bone? I can kick his butt for you."

“Well, Haru works even more than me, so I have no room to complain."

"I'll kick his butt for overworking himself too, no holds barred." Kisumi brought up his dukes like an Irish boxer, laughing. "I'm gonna stick around for another drink, so there's no need to wait for me."

"Are you sure you don't want me to—?" Makoto reached for his wallet.

"Nonsense." Kisumi shooed his hand away. "Don't be a stranger. You're welcome over whenever. Tell Haru I said hi."

Makoto promised he would and left without fanfare, hitting the streets in a mildly intoxicated fog. The minute he was out the door, he received a text:

_btw I was serious. u can come over any time. no explanations needed. I'll give u a copy of my key if you want it._

And then a second:

_I don't know if u're staying in touch w/ anyone from hs bsides haru but even tho me and rin are busy, we're here for u. we care about u a lot. we want u to be happy._

He did stay in touch, somewhat. Nagisa had run off to Hokkaido to do agricultural work—to the eternal rage of his parents—Rei was studying synthetic natural gas in Sweden, Rin was in Tokyo but ran a lunatic schedule, and Kisumi spent more time in his office than at home. They cared. He knew they did, even when they didn't say it, but the halcyon days of their youth were far behind them. They had their own paths to walk and didn't need his floundering and indecisiveness tripping them up. Every time Rei talked about what a great team he worked with or Nagisa bombarded him with pictures of baby cows he'd helped birth or Rin broke a personal best, it set a little spark aglow in his chest. At least someone's life was going right. He couldn't ruin that for them.

So he smiled, no matter how miserable he was.

He looked up at the narrow skyline, at the buildings bedecked in photo and video advertisements full of promises for better loves, better homes, better lives. Buy one product and solve your worldly woes. Makoto wished things could be so easy. Changes that mattered took pain and frustration and more time and money than any sane person would want to spend and had no guarantee of success. Settling into complacent mediocrity was simpler. It made no serious demands of any personal resources. All he had to do was run on his wheel, digging his rut deeper and deeper until it collapsed atop him and became his grave. Another bump in the road, another nobody who did nothing of importance. That was the kind of person he was. He knew it and hated it.

On lonelier nights, when he watched the shadows crawl across the ceiling, part of him resented his friends' success. Even when they struggled, they made it look easy. He wondered how Rin or Rei could get the courage to go overseas alone, how Nagisa could gleefully defy the expectations placed on him and prosper regardless.

His phone buzzed with a reminder from Haru to come back after closing. He turned it off and rode the train home in silence. He was tired, above all else. Tired of one man pity parties. Tired of being hung up on a stupid high school crush. Tired of living a life where he had to find happiness vicariously through others. He wanted to become the dream gardener Kisumi believed he would be.

First thing tomorrow morning, he would throw himself into his job search with renewed fervor, schedule himself a holiday to do some travelling, call Rin and ask him about the Samezuka gig, narrow down the ads he'd found online to a satisfactory salary range, and start getting back into shape so he didn't disappoint the kids whose futures he'd be guiding.

The thoughts buoyed him. This time he could make the difference he wanted in his life.

But first, he had a cake to make.

—

The oven was preheated. The springform pans were greased. The ingredients were lined out on the counter, measured and waiting. All Haru needed was the most important element: Makoto.

Haru went to the fridge and pulled out the cum jar. It was a simple glass container with an airtight seal and a metal latch to keep in all the cummy goodness, kept hidden in the far corner of the fridge behind the extra butter. When Haru had first suggested the first iteration of the BW cakes—which only had semen for a special ingredient—Makoto had balked at the notion and came into work empty-handed for weeks. Gradually the feeling of Haru’s stare burning into his back day after day overwhelmed him and he brought four condoms loaded to bursting to apologize. Even now he remembered watching Haru snipping the tips and squeezing them out like bags of frosting in an informal christening of the jar. He’d spent the day unable to think about anything but the secret festering in the fridge and planned to throw it out when no one was watching, but when he went to enact his plan, Haru surprised him with a dinner that made the agonizing day and the long train ride he’d spent trying to prevent the warm cum balloons from rupturing in his pocket worth it.

They had developed a simple routine by now. Makoto brought samples in no less than once a week, sometimes reusing the same condom several times or combining multiple emissions into a single condom to make deposits easier. Harvesting the samples soon became the most taxing part of the procedure, because even though he had grown used to masturbating with a condom on, he didn’t enjoy it and spent more time playing with his ass to compensate for the loss of sensation. At first, this had been a haphazard combination of fingers and household items that couldn’t satisfy him the way he’d expected it to, but after a close call with a highlighter that decided it wanted to call his colon home, he started investing in proper toys and amassed a small collection ranging from a modest and effective Aneros model to the pricy but fun Stronic Zwei pulsator and a handful of different sized butt plugs. The pulsator was his favourite since he could lay back and pretend the cock hammering into him was Haru's. It was what he had used after his meal with Kisumi, hunched in a sweaty heap in his bathroom as he milked his balls until they hurt.

Haru emptied Makoto’s newest addition into the jar and sampled a drop remaining near the reservoir—Makoto knew he’d be making another specimen to that visual soon enough—then took a second drop. His features tightened. He leaned over and took a whiff of Makoto, crinkling his nose at the faint aroma of beer and garlic that still lingered around him. Makoto swallowed the apology for breaking his diet, having a feeling that he'd wake up to a basket of pineapples at his door.

The cum jar went back into the fridge for now and Haru picked up the video camera sitting on the counter and pointed it at Makoto, the red eye of the record light cutting to the bone.

"Hi there," he started off shyly, trying to not crumple under the cold glare of the lens. "You ordered the Killer Works package and part of that is a special video, just for you. Normally people don't get to see inside the kitchen, but I wanted to show you that I'm putting my heart and soul into this cake so you can have the best birthday ever."

He stepped out of his pants and shucked off his trunks, which were sodden with sweat and lube. The top came off next and he stood there nude, breaking more health code violations than he could count on both hands. Haru wrote the date in a straight line beneath Makoto's bellybutton, going over each number twice so they would show up clearly on the film.

"It's a little chilly in here," Makoto said with a weak chuckle, crossing his arms over his chest, hiding his erect nipples as the soft felt tip tickled across his flesh.

With the marking done, Makoto took over control of the camera as Haru prepped the first round of wet ingredients on the stove, mixing dark, fragrant molasses and sugar with melting butter, filling in the silences by explaining that the BW cakes had an entirely separate set of utensils from those used in their day to day baking, rigorously sterilized after each use and packed away in a sealed container that was never to be touched by the rest of the staff. When the liquid was combined, he turned off the stove and put the pan on the backburner, then mixed the dry ingredients as it cooled. The cum jar returned as Haru poured 710mL of cum and four eggs into the wet mix, stirring them until they were completely combined.

"And this is where I come in."

Haru carried the dry ingredients bowl to the middle of the kitchen floor and Makoto sat before it on hands and knees, exposing the base of the butt plug he'd been wearing for the past hour. Haru zoomed in to get a closeup of Makoto's ass, which had lost its tone with age and decreased physical activity. He squeezed it as if appraising a piece of meat, spreading the cheeks to show off the glittering glass plug before he took hold of it and slowly pulled it out, watching the sphincter flare pink around it. The emerald green head of the plug shone dully in the kitchen light and Haru rotated it like jewelry showman before holding it out in front of Makoto's face. Makoto obediently swallowed it to the root, glad that the sweetness of his lube drowned out any undesirable flavours that might've otherwise been there. He sucked until the plug was spotless and set it down, mindful of the cool air passing through the slight gape in his twitching fuckhole.

From somewhere offscreen, Haru retrieved a black rubber anal plug. It was not a pretty thing like Makoto's, but its design had clear purpose: two hoses protruded from the head, one linked to a hand pump and the other terminating abruptly, intended to be linked to an enema bag. He set the camera on Makoto's back and drizzled lube onto the plug, then inserted it into the awaiting pucker.

"How many did we do last time?" he asked.

"Seven," Makoto said, training his eyes on the tile floor. He could lie, give a lower number, but Haru remembered exactly how many pumps he'd done.

"We'll do eight this time."

Haru began squeezing the bulb and the plug puffed outward, swelling to block his hole shut.  The first few pumps were nothing special, though each puff made him squirm a little as he was opened up. Five was enough to make him comfortably full. Seven was pushing his limits to the brink. Eight had him digging his teeth into his lip as his ass screamed in agony. Not even his pulsator was this big. The ferocious burn spread through the entirety of his ass as if he'd sat on the griddle his lunch had been cooked on. Nothing could escape without breaking him in the process.

The open hose was connected to a funnel and Makoto carefully lowered himself forward to make it easier for the impending enema to penetrate him, rebalancing the camera on his bum to a more stable position. Haru poured the thick wet mix into the funnel, working slow and patient as the enema snaked through the baker's bowels, breaking up the chunky fecal fudge lodged within. The mix was still warm, too warm, and Makoto bit into the back of his fist, refusing to admit it. Outward his belly swelled as he was packed to the brim with hot molasses and cum like a triple X-rated version of the little jelly men filled with sour juice he'd eaten as a child.

Cramps set in fast, the crushing pressure on his abdomen dovetailing with the rolling spasms of pain from his clenching muscles. His breath came in shudders, lungs torn to tatters with each new hot spike of agony as the molasses and cum kept pouring in, gut bristling with fire and knives as Haru squeezed down the length of the tube to urge out the last of the batter. He disconnected the funnel and let the hose slap down against Makoto's thigh.

And then, they waited.

Eyes burning, nose running, teeth embedded near bone in his fist, Makoto waited. If there was one thing he was good at, it was enduring. The customer didn't want to see him cry and neither did Haru.

That was the lie he took most comfort in.

Haru picked up the camera and nudged him in the bum with his foot, prompting him to the next phase.

"Got... Gotta mix it up for you..." Makoto croaked as he swirled his hips in circles, sending the hot, sticky mix deeper inside him.

After a few rotations, Haru tapped him again and he stopped, awaiting the next cue. Verbal commands had become few between them even for this. For a while there was nothing and then—yes! the hiss of air as the release valve was activated. Makoto rejoiced as his anus was allowed to slacken.

"Careful," Haru warned him as he removed the plug. If he let it out too fast, it would send the dry ingredients flying.

Makoto pushed himself up into a squat, sweaty hands slipping on the tile floor, and poised himself over the stainless steel bowl as the gurgling in his guts reached an unbearable height. This was the moment they had been waiting for, all of his secrets and filth spilling out of him on camera. He'd been constipated for several days now and he feared they had no bowl big enough to contain the monstrosity lurking deep within him, ready to awaken.

A dark squirt of molasses and a bite-sized greenish-brown turd slithered out of his ass and fell into the mix with a plop, the precursor of greater things to come. Liquid continued dripping out as the first major segment played turtle, sending his sphincter into a series of flirtatious flares around the log. He massaged his stomach with one hand, trying to help it out, moaning as it began to slide free, stimulating those delicious nerves in his anus. The turd went on and on, picking up speed as it passed through his sphincter before catching near the end. It refused to break, despite his attempts to pinch it off. He wiggled and waggled but the shit remained stuck as pressure built higher and higher in his bowels until it was finally launched out of his butthole by an explosive fart that sprayed hot liquid everywhere and sounded like a drowning duck.

Makoto twisted his head back and saw speckles of shitjuice covering the floor around the bowl and the tips of Haru's work shoes.

"I'm so sorry, I promise I'll clean them—"

"It's fine. Keep going."

He strained, feeling a twinge in his heart as he tried to coax the next wave out. There came a short gust of air, not quite a fart, but an airy _shff_ , followed by another with more of a tone as the second shitblock descended hard into the pipeline and chugged its way out in the form of a a long, pasty poopsnake that coiled into the stainless steel bowl like chocolate soft-serve. It undulated with every move he made, the seductive shimmy capable of putting any stripper to shame. Even in spite of the embarrassment, it felt good to unburden the pressure that had been sitting heavy in his guts for the past few days.

Only towards the end of the snake did the smell hit him in full, an ungodly fetor that cast a miasma over the kitchen. The stench was so sharp and wretched that it felt as if he'd had his nose packed with salt and punched in. Everything he'd eaten in the past five days had transformed into this beast: the creamy hot chocolate with kitty marshmallows from a coffee shop he'd met one of his former classmates at, the leftover mango cheesecake, the piping-hot fried chicken from Lawson, the curry he'd made a bit too spicy, the delightfully salty sardines he'd picked up on sale, and everything else he couldn't remember. It was a true wonder of the body that such delicious, beautiful things could become something so awful. The shit responsible for the olfactory assault stared up from the pile of batter, feigning innocence as it marinated in its own filth, and Makoto rubbed his belly again to urge the last of the turd loose, wanting to empty himself out so he didn't have to languish much longer under the oppressive weight of his shitstink.

He tried to force out the final chunk of poop still crammed in his intestine, but a long whistler that segued into a rambling assortment of toots and rumbles burst forth instead. Every time he thought the storm had passed, it started up anew and soon tears teetered on the brink of spilling down Makoto's cheeks as the cavalcade of farts thundered on uninterrupted. Pooping and cum collecting was one thing, but the farts were mortifying. He couldn't turn a blind eye to what he was doing when his bowels were alive with the sound of poosic. He apologized over and over again to both Haru and the customer, managing to keep it together until he was ambushed by a feisty fart that set his cornhole aflame. More liquid seeped through his burning ring of fire only to be blasted away by another gassy eruption. He wept silently as the farting fit was punctuated by a ripping _BLAATT_ and the crowning of a third segment's head.

The surface was like drought-cracked mud after the first rain in a long while, grating against his spicy butthole. Sweat dripped down his back and balls into the batter as he prayed to every god known to man and several he made up on the spot to make the delivery of his poobaby a swift one. He rocked his hips down, trying to usher it out smoothly and succeeded only in sending the log dancing through the wet mix and splattering more on the floor, Haru's feet, and his own bum. It was with great relief he heard the sputtering gasp of his rectum as the final log arrived safe and sound.

Haru walked in front of Makoto, camera trained dead on him. Makoto sobbed, throwing his arms up over his face, wobbling on his heels as he tried to stop himself from tumbling assfirst into the mixing bowl. Haru rested his hand on Makoto's arm and after a few seconds, Makoto returned his hands to their original position, revealing the ugliness of his tearstreaked face. Another cramp seized him, screwing his expression into one of agony. He forced himself to smile for the camera.

"I—I'm crying 'cause it feels really g-good," he hiccuped. "I'm sorry."

This smile wasn't good enough. He had to show them how happy he was. He pressed his index fingers into the corners of his lips and spread them wide, exposing his pearly whites.

Everything was okay.

As long as he smiled, everything would be okay.

Even though he knew what came next.

Haru undid his fly with one hand and fished out his cock. It was soft, pretty with a bashful pinkish head hidden under his foreskin. It took a few seconds, but when it came, the golden stream was fast and heavy. Haru shot high, wetting Makoto's hair and sending trickles down over his eyebrows, into his eyes, then redirected the flow, shooting straight into his gaping mouth. Makoto tried not to gag at the hot, earthy piss swirling in his throat, blinking away the stinging droplets stuck in his lashes. He craned forward as the flow dwindled, wanting to minimize the cleanup, keeping his tongue just out of reach of Haru's dick. The customers wouldn't like it if they touched, even though they were the ones paying for Haru to piss on him.

As he got closer, the scent of cock washed over his face in a warm fog, musky and moist with sweat from working all day. It set him salivating like a starving dog with a steak dangled before him. He wanted to be a good boy and clean Haru's cock for him, from the tippy top of his shaft to the soft, sparse hairs coiling around the root. He would be thorough, making sure to suck the sweat from the innards of his foreskin and under the head, licking his balls until he could see his reflection in them, switching sides to suck his bitter hole and Haru would love it, love him—

Haru shook off, flecking his face with reality.

He tucked himself back in and walked back behind Makoto, returning the focus to his ass. Makoto shivered at the sound of latex gloves snapping tight around Haru’s wrists. They were almost done with the worst bit, he just had to make it through the next minute and he would be done. He clenched his eyes shut and thought of nice things—fluffy kittens and trees in autumn—as Haru’s long pointer finger pushed deep inside him to scrape out the remnants of the batter. This was the closest thing resembling physical intimacy he’d done with Haru and while he wanted to savour it for all it was worth, he knew he couldn’t explain away any abnormal bodily reactions he had if the matter arose.

“You’re bleeding,” Haru said, showing him a hair-thin streak of blood on the blue glove. It wasn’t the first time Makoto had had an anal fissure, though this one didn’t seem serious enough to warrant going to a doctor. “Take a warm bath when you get home. It’ll help with the pain.”

Haru pitched the dirty gloves in the bin and chopped up the poopsnake into more manageable pieces, whisked it all together until it was smooth, then filled the pans and stuffed them in the oven. While the cake baked, Haru made the cream cheese frosting, again substituting milk with spunk, and Makoto cleaned the floor and sterilized the equipment they were finished with. They finished the end of day business while it cooled, depositing the register money in the vault, cleaning out the coffee machine, and doing a touch of prepwork for tomorrow's batch of sweet treats, but once there was nothing else left to do, it was time to frost.

Haru scooped a sizable dollop of frosting into the middle of the first layer. Careful to not crush the cake with his beefy behind, Makoto squatted down and began rotating his hips in tiny circles to spread the frosting. Haru's hand came down and stroked Makoto's head as he worked, a carrot to get him through the final stretch of the night. His narrow fingers slid through Makoto's hair, sending pleasant tingles through his scalp and down his spine, mindful to pull towards his belly rather than away lest he scatter loose hairs into the cake. Makoto pressed his face into the warmth of Haru's uniform, breathing in the faint scent of sugar and sweat, savouring the smooth, creamy sensation of frosting on his skin. This was one of the few parts of the process he liked. Haru tapped on his neck to let him know it was time for the next layer and he did it over again, then slathered his butt up with a final batch of frosting to cover the sides and let Haru spin the plate until it had sufficient coverage, cleaning up the work with his spatula as he went. When all was said and done, Makoto stood over the cake and flashed peace signs at the camera.

"Everyone at The Rockhopper Bakery wants to wish you happy birthday and to thank you for being our beloved customer... especially me. I made this cake for you with all my heart. I hope all your birthday wishes come true."

The recording light finally went off.

"Did you want to get dinner?" Makoto asked as he wiped away the spare frosting. Haru barely ate when he was working, so asking for a meal was the easiest way to spend a little while longer with him.

"I have a meeting to go to."

"Who with? That lady from the florist's shop? Did she decide what cake she wanted?"

"Sousuke."

"From Samezuka? When'd you two become friends? I didn't think you'd talked to him since high school."

"It's a business meeting," Haru grumbled as if his attendance was begrudging, but his eyes were aglow with something Makoto had never seen in them before. "You can come if you want."

"No, I wouldn't want to intrude. I hope you have fun," Makoto said, stuffing down the winsome ache in his chest with a smile.

He picked up a bag of burgers and a case of beer on the way back to his flat and snagged a first class seat on the Blackout Express.

Tomorrow was too soon to change his life. The day after would be better.

—

By the time next evening came around, his hangover had subsided into a dull, unrelenting pain in the back of his skull and the urge to vomit was nearly gone. Haru had been less than pleased with his continued binge, supplying him with Pocari through the day. He didn't think the customers would notice, but a handful of regulars did and their sympathy made it hurt worse. Rough night? I remember being your age. All you need's the hair of the dog that bit you. I guess even guys like you need to unwind once in a while.

Is there anything I can do to help you?

He leaned against the door, pinching the bridge of his brow as the hammer started pounding white hot metal pain anew. It wasn't as if he could dump his problems on strangers and expect them to know how to handle it. Hell, he wasn't sure where a shrink could start.

_I'm a massive coward and I have no idea what I'm doing with my life, I've been in love with my best friend for ten years even though I know he'll never feel the same, and I spent last night shitting into a bowl to make him happy. Got any solutions?_

He sighed and lifted from the wall, headed towards the bathroom. There wasn't any time to dawdle around being melancholy.

His butler uniform, reserved for special events such as today, was hanging on the bathroom door. Slacks, shirt, waistcoat, tailcoat, each tailored to near perfection, emphasizing the broadness of his back and the length of his legs and diminishing the visual presence of his paunch. His buttons gleamed star bright and the shine of his shoes was sharp enough to cut. He combed back his hair—again a treat reserved for special occasions, lest the customers fall into ecstatic conniptions at the sight—slipped on the oft-replaced gloves and left his tie lopsided. If he could be so bold, he thought he looked to be the portrait of service.

He was caught by Haru the moment he stepped out, made to stay still as he straightened his tie. Haru vulture-circled him, appraising his uniform carefully before ducking into the bathroom to retrieve a pair of cufflinks.

"You forgot these."

He always forgot the cufflinks, not entirely on accident.

"He paid for soul therapy," Haru said as he gathered Makoto's sleeve and inserted the first link. The front sections were made of green glass craftily cut to look like gems, a pair of perfect fakes. "Call me if he tries anything funny."

Soul therapy was one of the additional services offered for private parties, thirty minutes of Makoto's undivided attention for 6000 yen. Normally customers used the time to bend the normal ruleset and learn more about their beloved baker or to vent out their frustrations about their personal lives. Conversations were never heavy, even during griping sessions, and Makoto was able to indulge in a disgusting amount of cat talk to brighten the mood. In certain cases, it was almost as therapeutic for him as it was for them, if only it weren't for the restrictions on his behaviour.

Over the term of his service at The Rockhopper, Makoto had come to realize how his customers perceived him and guarded that persona to prevent disappointment. To them, he was the typical country boy in the big city, full of sunshine and southern charm, meant to be loved and protected from the scummy side of Tokyo at all costs. He had once, out of curiosity, inquired about yakuza presence in the area to a police officer and was immediately assured that the police were taking good care of it despite that morning's headlines blaring about yet another corruption scandal in the department.

The therapy persona had its downsides. Folks talked down to him, thinking him to be a touch dull for not having gone to a top ranked school in the metro and any mistakes or misunderstandings about a remotely intellectual topic were blown out of proportion and laughed off as "typical Makoto." Likewise, he was forbidden from having bad days, because what troubles could a simple man like him have? They diminished whatever was going on in his life into trifles like busted shoes or getting splashed by a puddle on the way home, assuring him that things weren't quite so bad, that he didn't have to look so glum. Even if his apartment had been flooded and destroyed massive amounts of his personal property. Even if his dad had been hospitalized for a heart murmur. When those things happened to him, they didn't really happen. Those were human concerns. The bakery Makoto floated over that, enjoying an ethereal existence shrouded in baked goods and sweet coffee.

He hoped that this was the last time he had to play this caricature.

The table was laid out with one of the dishware sets brought out only for special occasions, the centrepiece a rotund Chinese teapot painted with ocean scenery in delicate blue strokes. The plates and cups matched the pot and the silverware was polished enough for Makoto to reflect the unrelenting regret of his life choices back on himself. Next to Makoto's seat was a portable DVD player with a cut down version of the cake-making process loaded up for him to show to the customer.

As the customer's scheduled time approached, Makoto's bladder began to ache. Haru had sat him down with a litre of water a few hours ago with the command to hold it until the customer arrived. He tried to focus on busywork to keep himself distracted, but every minute that ticked by increased the stab in his abdomen. He squeezed his cock through his slacks, wondering if he should give himself a chub to make it easier to hold it in, but knew he couldn't let the customer see him with an erection. The bakery Makoto was supposed to be sexless, pure. He would have to tough it out until he was allowed to use the toilet.

He caught sight of Haru watching him from the corner where he was mopping up the sticky remnants of a latte spill. Upon realizing he had been spotted, Haru jostled the mop in the bucket so that the soapy water sloshed over the rim and onto the tile, then lifted it up to show off the dripping threads. The mopwater tinkled against the plastic, then the tile as he slammed the mop against the ground and mopped aggressively so Makoto could hear every splat and squish of the threads as they twisted on the floor. He felt himself clench and a dribble of urine squirted through his urethra to splatter the front of his briefs. He squeezed himself again, dancing on the spot for a split second. Haru jammed the mop back into the bucket and another sudsy wave splashed out. There was still five minutes until the customer was going to arrive. He realized he was going to have to cheat if Haru kept this up.

"Maybe you should wait on finishing mopping. The customer's going to be here any minute now."

Haru didn't seem to hear him, going on his merry way, slapping and sloshing the wet mop across the floor.

The ache intensified and Makoto threw away his pride, begging, "Haru, please, I have to pee really bad."

Haru paused, eyebrow quirked as he leaned on his mop.

"I'm gonna pee my pants if you don't stop, so _please_. I don't want to make a mess for you to clean up."

Sighing as if inconvenienced, Haru picked up the bucket and put out a wet floor sign, leaving Makoto to continue fretting over his swollen bladder.

Makoto paced anxiously, wondering how long until the customer would arrive. If he pissed himself before then, he could clean it up, but if he pissed after—he jolted as something cold and wet pressed against the back of his neck, sending another few droplets squirting out of his pisshole. He spun on his heel to see Haru holding an ice cube. Before he could speak, Haru took him by the chin and slid the ice into his mouth.

"Don't swallow until it's gone or the customer shows up. Whichever happens first."

"I don't think I can do it," Makoto slurred around the cube as it began melting in the warm confines of his mouth, sliding over his tongue and soaking his gums.

"You can."

The ice sat cold between his molars, chilling them numb as water trickled down the back of his throat. Desperate, he rubbed himself half-erect to curb the likelihood of an unwanted accident. Maybe the customer wouldn't notice his arousal if he kept him distracted. Haru's gaze tinted with disappointment and he forced himself to stop stroking, instead cupping his hands around his penis as if it was a safety blanket. A bony thumb dug into the meat above his pubic mound, searching for the spot that made him flinch most. When Haru found it, he ground into it until Makoto squirmed.

"Do you still have to go?"

Makoto nodded, afraid to speak for fear of losing control under the hard pressure of Haru's thumb.

"Are you going to embarrass yourself?"

Makoto shook his head, the ice bouncing against his teeth.

"Then I'll be counting on you." He jabbed deep, making Makoto whimper. "Swallow."

Makoto gulped, coughing as the hard ridges of the cube scraped his esophagus.

Their customer signalled his late arrival with a knock at the door. They greeted and seated him at his table, wished him a happy birthday, and gave him an orca phone charm as a modest gift. Makoto joggled his leg the entire time, trying to rush through the preliminary niceties as fast as possible so he could earn his pee break. With the man settled in, they were able to get to the business of serving him.

"Is tea fine?" Makoto asked, brandishing the beverage menu. "We have a wide selection, if you don't mind taking a look."

"I'd love to hear about them. What do you recommend?"

Reading the entire tea list aloud would take precious time he couldn't afford. He cut it down to three random entries off the list. "We have a very full-bodied autumnal flush Darjeeling. Next is an independent variant of Lady Grey with strong citrus tones and a touch of lavender and blue mallow. Last is a tamaryokucha purchased directly from a vendor in Kyushu. It's very mild and tangy with nice grass tones and a strong almond finish."

The man deliberated over his choices while Makoto curled his toes inside his shoes, trying to keep the dam from bursting. It felt as if there was an elephant standing on his bladder. He ran over visuals in his head. Deserts. Prawn crackers. Salt, like the ocean, no, not like the ocean, not like the waves crashing down onto the shore and soaking them through—salt bricks, salt bricks and deserts and the pyramids of Egypt. His lip wobbled as the urgency became unbearable, but he straightened up and busied himself clenching his thigh muscles, determined to keep smiling.

Finally the man sat back and said, "I'm happy with whatever you want to give me."

Haru knelt beside him and opened the teapot, dumping in a preprepared bundle of tamaryokucha. Makoto fumbled with his zipper, tearing it and his briefs down as the first involuntary dribbles of piss spattered out like a malfunctioning sprinkler. He pressed the rim of his cockhead to the pot's open mouth, waiting to soften up enough to let loose. He rocked on his heels, trying to urge out the piss he sorely needed until suddenly a switch within him was thrown and his resistance crumbled into dust. Piss gushed out of him in a hot, violent jet, frothing in the pot, sending the coiled leaves writhing like drowned worms. They wouldn't open fully despite the heat of his urine, but what they lacked in natural flavour could be made up for by the brew-water. Once the brunt of the pressure had subsided, he breathed sweet, cold relief into his inflamed lungs. Keeping his hand carefully out of the customer's sight, Haru rubbed the back of his calf in approval.

He pissed on and on until he feared that he would overflow the teapot, but the torrent slowed to a trickle, then ceased altogether. Haru placed the lid back on and set the pot on the table to steep. Makoto tucked his cock back into his trousers, trying to ignore the wet spots, pleased that he hadn't soaked himself this time. Serving a customer with pissy pants was a miserable experience, especially when saturated his socks and had to walk around with his urine squishing between his toes. The customer seemed likewise pleased at his performance, his gaze full of admiration and... He didn't know what to call it.

Haru brought out the cake and retreated to the back to let Makoto have the floor.

"I did my very best to help make this cake for you, so I hope you enjoy!" Makoto said with a deep bow. "Let's give it a little extra love magic to make it taste even better."

He cupped his hands together into a heart and with the man he chanted, "Moe moe kyun!"

Makoto cut a large slice for the gentleman and served it up on their fine tableware, setting a mental timer for the beginning of their therapy session.

"I'm glad I can spend my birthday like this. If you don't mind me asking, are you and that baker kid...?" He flashed his pinky.

"Ah, no. Just a childhood friend."

"Really? Goodness, must be nice to have such wonderful friends." The man contemplated this newfound information for a bit, then said, "You know, I've never been popular. Everyone's only tolerated me at best. But seeing you every day has made me feel like I matter to someone. I know it's stupid to think that, but I do."

"It's not stupid," Makoto assured him.

"I hope my patronage helped you too somehow, even if it's only making sure you get a paycheck. Whoever comes after you will have big shoes to fill."

"That's very kind of you. All my customers and coworkers are precious to me. I'm going to miss you more than you'll know."

"Oh, how terribly rude of me!" The man gestured at the cake. "Go ahead and help yourself."

"Just a small piece, since I haven't had dinner yet. Don't want to spoil my appetite." He cut himself a tiny wedge, then poured the both of them a cup of tea to postpone the first bite as long as possible.

The cake was dark and dense and stank to high heaven—so much so that it had been kept in a locked container through the day in order to prevent it gassing out the joint before it was time to close. He cut into one of the thickest pieces of his slice, unwilling to see his shame mirrored in the fork and bit into the cake first—he always saved the frosting for last since it tasted the best—steeling his face to hide the cringe. It was savage in its bitterness, only the thin streak of frosting between the layers suggesting a hint of sweet, and accented with the tangy aftertaste of molasses. The urge to vomit rose hot in his throat, but he stifled it. He chewed slowly, letting the shitcake squelch between his teeth, soaking up his saliva and turning it into a spongy mess. New flavours developed as he swished it around in his cheek, the occasional tone of coffee and spice, but mostly hateful sourbitter notes that kept checking his gag reflex. Things had gotten easier since the first few times he'd eaten the Killer Works, but working against his body's basic instincts was still a struggle. As long as he took it slow, he could get through this.

The distinct texture of an undigested corn kernel on his tongue brought him the unwanted visualization of the bowl he'd shat into last night and he yarped a bit of acid into his mouth, then forced himself to swallow everything at once with a swig of tea.

Ignorant of the silent struggle going on across from him, the customer said, "This is the most delicious tea I've ever had. And this cake is divine. My compliments to the chef."

"Thank you so much," Makoto said, trying not to spew his lunch onto the table.

The customer picked up the the DVD player's remote and started the video, revealing the disgusting origin of their meal in glorious HD. Makoto's hand shook as they reached the shitting scene and shoveled more cake into his mouth, wanting to drown out the humiliating sounds.

"You didn't have to apologize. I don't mind your farts at all."

"But they're embarrassing..."

"Nonsense! You should be proud of your body." The customer paused the video and slapped his hand against the table. "Sing me the song of farts. I want to hear the voice of your ass."

Makoto didn't think he could fart on command but if that was how the customer wanted to spend the time he'd paid for, he'd do his best to oblige his wishes. Besides, time spent farting meant time not spent eating.

He stood up and turned around, pulling down his trousers enough to expose his soft buttocks. Breathing deep, he closed his eyes and rubbed his stomach, trying to feel out a potential fart. He'd been in a rush earlier and chowed down a bunch of boiled eggs, so he figured had a few stored in the tank. Sure enough, his abdomen was taut with gas. He pressed his fingers in alternating rhythms, trying to guide the pressure down the length of his gut and out into the open air. It took a few minutes of massaging until a splendiferous assplosion that sent the tails of his dress coat aflutter erupted forth. The man wafted the gas towards him, sampling the aroma like a sommelier with a prime vintage. A second barker came shortly after, followed by a high whine and on he went like a magical fart calliope, filling the bakery with a sulfurous stench that could peel paint. 

A dozen farts later, his luck ran out. He contracted his abs to force out what he thought would be the boldest, brassiest fart yet and instead ejected a wet sputter that dribbled down his asscrack. He clenched his cheeks together and spun around, bowing so deep and sharply that he smashed his forehead into the table.

"I'm sorry!"

"No, no, it's fine. Here, let me." The customer fetched his napkin and coaxed Makoto's hands away from his bum to wipe up the shart. Haru phased in from the kitchen to replace the offending cloth and disappeared once more.

Satisfied with the impromptu concert, the man whiled away the rest of his time in a calm fashion, making small talk as they watched the video, sipped tea and ate the delicious cake. Makoto would've enjoyed the scene in any other circumstances if not for the devilish details. After powering through every last bit of his slice, Makoto packaged the rest of the cake up and thanked the customer for his time and continued patronage.

"It was my pleasure. I hope you keep smiling forever."

And with that, the man left.

Once the man was far out of sight, Makoto retreated to the bathroom to change back into his street clothes. There was a travel-sized toothbrush and toothpaste waiting for him on the back rim of the sink and he scrubbed his mouth until the taste of shit was but a lingering shadow in the back of his throat, then scoured his hands with obsessive fervor and splashed water on his face, shocking himself back into sanity. He looked into the mirror, realizing that he was still wearing his customer-serving face. The one with the soft, bewitching smile. The one that caused him these problems. Maybe he was too nice. Too much of a pushover. People wouldn't make the demands they did if he was a little less unapproachable, wouldn't always be wanting more from him than he had it in him to give. He tried frowning, furrowing his brow. It made his face hurt.

The drunken thoughts of yesterday resurfaced as he splashed his face again. He couldn't do this anymore. He had to quit. He was going to quit right now and dedicate himself wholly to his job search and get outta Tokyo while the getting was good. He would start the family he had dreamed of having since he was a kid. He was going to make his own happy ending, even if Haru wasn't part of it.

He gathered his things and turned out the light.

Haru was waiting for him outside, flicking through the keys to the shop, awash in the glow of the streetlamps. Were it not for them, he would be but a phantom of happier childhood days called by the dark. Makoto found himself afraid to blink, to destroy the illusion with a bat of the eye.

The air was thick enough to choke on.

He took a deep breath, ready to speak the words that had boiling in him ever since he graduated.

Haru reached up and fixed the wet strands of hair plastered to his face with a wry smile. "If you wanted a bath, you could've waited until you got to my house."

Every ounce of bravado he had mustered evaporated at once and the comfortable warmth of familiarity overtook him.

"What's for dinner?"

"I was in the mood for green curry. Here." Haru handed him a small white and blue box. Two pieces of black forest gâteau awaited inside. "For your hard work."

Makoto accepted the gift, unable to suppress his grin as Haru locked the door behind him.

He was being stupid, blowing his situation out of proportion. Things weren't so bad this way. It wasn't as if he hated his job outside of the BW cakes and he probably wouldn't get another order for one anytime in the near future. Maybe he would stay until the end of autumn so Haru had the help around to train new employees for the new year. That seemed like a sound plan. Yeah, that was a better idea. Besides, what would happen if he quit right now and then had a hard time getting hired on as a coach? It wasn't as if it was impossible or even improbable, he'd had similar droughts with jobs before working at the bakery. He didn't know what he was thinking just then, he should know better than to listen to stupid drunk thoughts. Stupid, stupid thoughts from a stupid, stupid person.

It didn't matter _when_ he quit as long as he did it.

Because he was going to quit. For sure. Even if it took longer than he thought it would. He had the rest of his life to change.

No need to rush.

**Author's Note:**

> Now you too can make your own Killer Works! [Recipe here.](http://www.thekitchn.com/recipe-dark-molasses-gingerbread-cake-recipes-from-the-kitchn-155934) [Shit not included.]
> 
> Story Notes:  
> Makoto attended uni at the pace of what he and his parents can afford, so he ran slightly behind schedule on his projected graduation date. He just finished his bachelor’s degree a few months before this story and has been hunting for jobs as a coach since. Regarding the cum harvesting section, if you were questioning, “Why doesn’t he just jack off and put the condom on before he cums?” the reason why he doesn’t is due to several failed attempts to do so in the beginning. It’s just easier to have it on the whole time, plus it gives me a reason to have him stick things up his butt.
> 
> Kisumi’s an EE. He specializes in telecom and works in the central office of a large firm. He gives his job a lot of grief, but he genuinely enjoys it and the healthy stock of vacation days they offer. The major downside—aside from the brutal crunch times—is that it’s harder to meet people with his schedule, so he was overjoyed to find The Rockhopper and see old faces. He was supposed to go drinking with his coworkers to celebrate finishing their project, but got out of it by telling them he promised to spend time with his girlfriend.
> 
> Haru’s meeting with Sousuke was business-related, though not entirely. They’ve been developing something of a casual friendship in the years since they graduated high school and commissioning a cake for a going-away party was as good of an excuse to get together for a beer and bitchfest as any. Sousuke faffed about with the idea of coaching for about a semester, then decided that he wanted to get into the sports medicine side of things, which requires grinding through med school first. He’s currently in the residency program at his university hospital and shambles through most days half dead. He can often be found taking stealth naps in the pediatric wing’s bathroom because it’s easy to bribe children to not tell the higherups that they found Dr Yamazaki doing the only thing he can to make it through a 12 hour shift. His coworkers think all the candy he carries in his pockets is for himself, despite never having seen him eat any. Rin has been trying to coerce him into looking overseas for his SEM training to ‘maximize his potential.’ He thinks that Rin gets his jollies from dragging people all over Earth for stupid reasons—but he’s brushing up on his English and German, just in case.
> 
> The only character whose life circumstances I didn't think too much about was Haru. Did he finish school? Did he do one Olympics and decide that was good enough? Did he drop out to open the bakery? How long has the bakery been open? I don't know. Normally I'm a big proponent of 'details matter', but sometimes when it comes to narratives, there's such a thing as visualizing too much or having too many details. Haru's, or indeed anyone's lives but Makoto's, don't actually matter much in the scale of the story because it's a story about Makoto. That said, it would be difficult for an uneducated, unproven dropout to get the finances he needs to open a shop in that location. I reckon he'd get laughed out of every bank in town if he tried. Maybe he got a shady high interest loan from the yakuza. I never considered them working in a preexisting location because that would mean Haru wouldn't have the creative liberty to bake or sell shit cakes. 
> 
> Assorted minutiae: BW is shorthand for both Black/White and Bodily Waste. The customers do not get to keep a copy of their kitchen video, but Haru doesn't delete them either. Thanks to Rei's careful tech tutelage he's got a 4TB external hard drive that he keeps them all on to rewatch at his leisure. He's currently in the process of assembling a Greatest Shits collection in his spare time.
> 
> There were some technical difficulties with the next bit of Spookfish, as you may have ascertained. Fortunately I had this story nagging at me to finish it, so I was able to avoid a month of nonupdates. At first, I had a hard time getting this story past the concept and outline stage and then, as if by magic, the words began to flow forth from my soul like the torrent that flowed from Makoto's bowels. It was truly a sight to behold.
> 
> Criticism is not only welcome, but encouraged, and I'll answer any questions that you have. Thanks for reading.  
> 15 September 2016  
> \- 匿名重工業


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